


Winter

by Inele



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Nazi Germany, Alternate Universe - World War II, F/M, French Resistance, Gay Male Character, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Prison, Violence, World War II, sick Courfeyrac
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2018-09-13 17:32:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9134209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inele/pseuds/Inele
Summary: "It was dark in the barrack. Not the serene, quiet darkness of a forest by night and not the cheerful, sparkling one of the Sergeant de Waterloo after midnight. This darkness was more than the mere absence of light. It was engulfed in the groaning of a hundred men, the shifting of their bodies in the narrow beds, the smell of their sweat, of illness and urine and the unnamed things that lingered beneath."Les Amis were members of a Resistance group in France. Now it's 1944 and some of them are imprisoned in Germany, some of them are missing and some of them are still living in France, fighting or just trying to get by.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfiction ever so please let me know if there is anything I need to change concerning tags or whatever. <3  
> Not sure, if I'm going to make a series out of this. So let's see.

_Germany, January 1944_

It was dark in the barrack. Not the serene, quiet darkness of a forest by night and not the cheerful, ,sparkling one of the Sergeant de Waterloo after midnight. This darkness was more than the mere absence of light. It was engulfed in the groaning of a hundred men, the shifting of their bodies in the narrow beds, the smell of their sweat, of illness and urine and the unnamed things that lingered beneath.

Cold and choking and still so welcomed by Combeferre, for Courfeyrac rested in the bunk next to him and these hours in the night were their only chance to talk in relative privacy. Though they never talked much. There was rarely a time when everyone was asleep and even though they all were prisoners, all unlawfully taken by the enemy, there were still people who would give away any secret for a cigarette or a piece of bread.

  
Combeferre sat up in his bed and slowly breathed in. He could hear shuffling on Courfeyracs side. The strong smell of the content of the bucket at the end of the barrack assaulted his nostrils. He closed his eyes for a moment. Someone ones told him that at some point one got used to any smell. And he was indeed used to the penetrating odor of unwashed men and bad breath. He was used to the foul smell of the bog and the stifling air in the barracks. But he did not know he would ever get used to this. He did not know if he wanted to.  
He breathed out and turned his body in Courfs direction. Combeferre was tired. He was always tired these days. Sometimes he felt as if his body did not belong to him anymore. His skin was rubbed raw and there was an ache inside him that reached deeper than his bones. His eyelids were sinking ships and sometimes he feared that they would drag him down into a different kind of darkness where he did not wish to go. Most of his friends were gone. Missing, lost, "transformed into mist" as the Nazis called it. He did not want to agree on terminology with this people but the term seemed fitting. He too felt as if he was nothing but a fleeting shadow. Still existing, still breathing but lost to the people who ones knew him, vanished from their lifes without a trace. No letters, no phone calls, no knowledge of his fate. If it was not for Courf he did not know what would have become of him in those last months.  
He was thankful for the darkness when he reached out and took Courfeyracs hand in his own. Courfs fingers were callused and hard where once there was soft, delicate skin.

  
"How are you doing?", whispered Courf in hushed french, leaning forward. Combeferre squeezed his hand, smiled a little, though in the darkness no one could see. "I'm good." To some extent he was, he supposed.  
"You?", he added after a moment of silence and looked at the dark shadow that was Courfeyrac. Courf was the one still cracking jokes, inventing songs, the one still laughing and dancing every Sunday in the community room. He was well liked by most of the other prisoners. Combeferre was more reserved. He listened to their conversations, eager to receive the tiniest fragments of information about France, about the war, the resistance, his friends.  
Courfeyrac snorted quietly and tightened his grip on Combeferres hand. Combeferre could hear him move, coming closer. He felt his breath on his cheeks.

"What are you doing?", he lowered his voice to a mere whisper. Courf chuckled, his lips connected with Combeferres. Chapped and cold as they were, they still felt good. Warm. "Breaking their laws.", his friend responded, his mouth still close to Combeferres face.  
"With laws like this it is the only decent thing to do, I suppose.", Combeferre knew that his voice carried a dash of bitterness, even while whispering. They had kissed before, hidden in the darkness of the barracks. Silently and secretly for they were indeed breaking the law and if anyone of the other prisoners saw, they would most likely not approve as well. Combeferre himself did not know, if he approved. It was a sin after all. But somehow he found himself not caring about sinfulness as much when these fleeting moments with Courfeyrac was the one thing he longed for while working, when Courfeyrac was the one person in this world that felt safe and good and warm.

He remembered looking at Courf before all this. When they were but students at the university in Paris, sitting in meeting rooms with Enjolras, talking politics, talking freedom and still not expecting anything that was about to come. Combeferre loathed his youthful naivety as much as he longed to have it back. Courf seemed to have lost less of himself in these last years. Or perhaps he was just pretending.  
"Have you heard anything?" Courf interrupted his thoughts, Combeferre could still feel his lips ghosting over his cheek, close to his ear. It was the safest way to talk. It was also the easiest. "There is talk. The guards are angry. Someone said something about Russia.", he murmured quietly. Courfeyrac shifted, leaned his cheek against Combeferres. "Good news, maybe.", he sounded disappointed. If only Combeferre knew more. If only he could tell Courfeyrac that it would be over soon, that the neutral rest of the world had finally decided to intervene, that their friends and families were still alive and safe.  
But they were barely two men, two lost figures in the dark, already transformed into mist.


	2. Chapter 2

_"Far and wide as the eye can wander, Heath and bog are everywhere. Not a bird sings out to cheer us. Oaks are standing gaunt and bare."_

Courfeyrac sang. The other men had joined in, some in other languages, but all to the same melody. Combeferre remained silent. He could sense the guards watching them. They were always watching. Pale men in long, dark cloaks, always warm with their portable ovens, always ready to shoot with their black rifles. The song Courfeyrac and the other prisoners were singing was forbidden because it contained fairly revolutionary lyrics. For some reason the guards tolerated the singing. Perhaps they were bored. Perhaps they just did not care any more. Combeferre did not want to make an effort to understand what exactly was going on in their corrupted minds.

He rammed his spade into the half frozen bog. His fingers felt like branches of the dead oaks Courfeyrac was singing about. His feet were stiff in his wooden boots. Sometimes he barely noticed anymore. It scared him how much he had gotten used to in those past few months. Years probably, if he counted the five years of war they had lived through. What once he would have thought of as tragedy had become his reality. He did not know how long one was able to endure such life. He did not know how much longer it would take for his mind to wither and wilt until he was hardly human any more. Already he felt sometimes as if his thoughts were only circling around the challenges of survival. As if all he was dreaming about was food and warmth. He found himself caring less and less about the people around him. His world had narrowed and perhaps his heart had as well. He felt guilty for those thoughts and feelings and he clung to that guilt. He clung to Courfeyrac as well for he was the person he cared most about in this camp and perhaps in this world.

Shakily and softly Combeferre joined in on the song of the other prisoners and rammed his spade into the ground once again. When he looked up, he could see Courf smiling at him. The sun was setting behind his friend. The day would be over soon. They were still alive. Combeferre supposed that was a good enough reason to smile. It was almost dark when the guards finally called them in. The working days were shorter in the winter. About ten hours, six days a week. Combeferre was thankful for his youth.

Sometimes they would let him work in the sickbay. They knew of his studies back in France. They knew a lot of things about him. Combeferre sighted and shouldered his spade. Somehow Courfeyrac managed to position himself next to him when they had to get into formation for the walk back to the camp. They shared another smile but remained silent. There was a guard next to them, his gaze lingered for a moment. He had a round face, brown eyes. He did not look like a murderer. Most of them did not. The guard opened his mouth and yelled something in his harsh language. The prisoners fastened their walk. They had learned the commands soon enough. Sometimes the guards changed the wording to have a reason to punish someone for disobedience. Most times they did not need a any reason at all.

Combeferre blinked. His mind was drifting, sailing away without him. He wished he could send it to happier places and times. Sometimes he thought of his family, his friends, his home. Even those memories were painful though. He did not know who and what was left. His mind was a fly in a web. Everytime he turned and trashed he found himself more entangled in those threads, beautiful as they were sometimes. Therefore he only looked forward to the nights. For then he could talk to Courfeyrac and perhaps his friend was tangled in a web as well but at least they were hanging next to each other.

He could feel a hand brushing his own. Courfeyrac was close to him, still smiling or perhaps yet again. In front of them, behind the rows of marching prisoners lay the camp. Its white walls seemed cold against the dark sky. Behind those walls were four fences, each one crowned with barbed wire, each one buzzing with electric power. A few weeks ago someone had thrown himself into the fence. Combeferre had closed his eyes and turned away. He brushed his hand against Courfs, his eyes lingering on the walls of their shared prison.

*

What a lifetime ago Combeferre would have called dinner consisted of a thin soup, water and potato peels and things he chose not to identify. They were all sitting next to each other, clattering with their bowls like starved dogs. Courfeyrac transferred a piece of hard bread to him. Combeferre pushed it back. He had heard his friend coughing once or twice during the meal and he worried. Perhaps it was just watery soup in Courfs airways. Even if it was not, the next day was Sunday and Courfeyrac would have time to rest. Combeferre did not want him to end up in the sickbay. It was mostly for dying.

"Eat it. I have my own.", he murmured when Courfeyrac made no move to take the bread back. For a moment his friend hesitated. Then he grabbed the bread and shoved it into his mouth, chewing slowly. They were all hungry.

Later that night they once again sat on their beds, facing each other in the dark. Once again they grasped for each others hands. Courfs hand was cold. So cold. Combeferre wrapped his other hand around those frozen fingers. He knew that his own hands were not much warmer. The barracks were not heated. They slept with their boots and hats on. He had forgotten what being warm felt like. Combeferre leaned closer, pressed his forehead against Courfs. "You're warm. ", he whispered. Courf turned his head to the side, away from him.

"I know. Don't worry. ", Combeferre was not sure if he was imaging things. Sometimes his mind played tricks on him and he was always so tired. Courfs voice sounded the tiniest bit husky. Even while whispering. Even in the dark. "How could I not?", he questioned, just as quietly.

"It's just the cold, Ferre. I'm not resigned and I'm not dying. So cease your worrying. I'll be fine.", Courfeyrac had moved closer again, his cheek pressed against Combeferres. So desperately he wished that he could just carry him away. To some place where it was safe and warm, where there were enough pillows and blankets and an oven with a bright fire. To some time when there was no war and no hunger and no Nazis. He had nothing to offer though, but is own two arms. So he wrapped them around his friend and was silent for a while until he could feel Courf yawning against his ear.

"You should sleep now. We can talk tomorrow." Courf did not protest and though he lingered in Combeferres arms for a moment, he soon turned around and lay down in his bed. And in the darkness Combeferre sat silently on his bunk and prayed to all the gods he never believed in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. I decided to do a second chapter.  
> The song in the beginning is an actual song from the camps, called "Peat bog soldiers". It also exists in french (and german).


	3. Chapter 3

“I'm sure you will see them again. If they didn't know about your...activities they do have a good chance… Just don't think about it if you can help it.”, Courfeyrac was talking to a boy from Belgium. He was young and his eyes were red. Sixteen, he heard them say. When Combeferre was sixteen the world had been entirely different. He remembered all the Sundays with his family and the colors in his mind were warm and bright and lovely. These days it was hard to imagine a world like that. This Sunday was cold and dark and it smelled like sweat and isolation. Combeferre traced the patterns of the wooden table. There was nothing as lonely as sitting among a hundred men. Combeferre breathed out. There were no books nor any other form of entertainment in the barracks. They sat and talked. Slowly losing themselves in their idle minds. He longed for the most badly written books in all of France, would have given up a slice of bread for one of Cosettes shallow romances and an entire meal for a reliable newspaper. Someone next to him coughed. Combeferre looked up and his eyes locked with Courfeyracs. His friend's face was pale. Beads of gathered on his forehead. “Are you well?”, Combeferre wanted to lift his hand and lay it on Courfeyracs cheek but he did not. Instead he sat motionless and hoped that his words would obtain some meaning on their way to Courfeyracs ears, that they would somehow absorb all his concern and all his affection and carry them across. Courfeyrac smiled and turned back to the boy.  
Certainly he was not well. Yet they lived in a time were there was no “well” anymore and the question was whether one had a mere cold or pneumonia, tuberculosis, influenza. Only they did not say so for it was too painful to call loss by one of its many names. Combeferre did not know how many of the people dear to him he had already lost. Lost. It sounded so careless. As if one day he had simply misplaced them. He hoped that they got away. He hoped that Courfeyrac and himself were not the lucky ones. The ones that were left. If there was one thing worse than being lost it was being left.  
He turned to his neighbor and started talking. The man said that he hoped spring would arrive soon. Combeferre agreed, though he knew that it would not. They talked about scarfs and wine. About green leafs and Camembert with grapes. All Combeferre heard where the things they left out, all he listened to was Courfeyracs breathing. Courfeyrac had stopped talking to the belgian boy. He was hunched over the table and sometimes his body would tremble as if he was cold or feverish.  
Combeferre closed his eyes. He pressed his fingers against the hard wood of the table. They wanted to reach out to Courf. But they were not allowed.

*

“Bitte. Ist nicht gut. Krank.”, Combeferre stared at the guard. His round face, his rosy skin. The fat of his belly. The guards had meat and potatoes. Butter and milk and coffee. Medicine and blankets.  
“Nun.”, the guard smiled and twisted his mustache, “Was hast du zu bieten?”, he continued, still smiling. Two of his front teeth were missing.  
“Alles.”, Combeferre breathed out. He had nothing to offer. He was not an artist, not a craftsman. And still, if he had anything left to give he would do so willingly. Courfeyrac was the one person he had left to lose. There was nothing he would not have traded to aid his recovery.  
“Oh. Ist das so?”, the guard started laughing. He had a shrill, childish laugh. “Und was könnte das sein? Den Endsieg vielleicht?”, his voice was quieter now. Combeferre did not understand all of what he was saying. “Wir haben nichts für euch übrig. Wozu auch?”, again the laughing. Combeferre wanted it to stop. The guard lit a cigarette and started smoking. Combeferre was dismissed. He turned around, took a few steps. Something hit him from behind. For a fleeting second he thought it was a bullet but it did not hurt and when he looked at the ground he could see a tiny yellow bonbon at his feet. He stopped, turned his face back to the guard. The man was still smoking. His eyes were fixed on the sky.  
Combeferre hesitated for a moment. A bonbon would not help him or Courf. A bonbon could not cure anything. It was worthless. Perhaps the guard was mocking him. Perhaps it was a trap and the man would shoot him for stealing the moment he picked up the candy. Perhaps it did not matter anymore. Combeferre grabbed the bonbon and put in his pocket. His eyes burned, stung. He had tried but he was nothing but a caged dog barking into the void, slamming his head against cold stone walls. He had tried but he was powerless and useless.  
Oh, how glorious he felt at their first meeting with Enjolras back in France. How powerful, how heroic. How inspired. Enjolras would not have tried to bribe the enemy. Enjolras would not have given up so easily. But then again, Enjolras had most likely not survived. He had heard what they did to leaders.  
Combeferre wiped his eyes. There was moisture on his fingers. It felt warm and sticky. He tried to catch his breath. The other men were talking and laughing just a few meters away. He took a few seconds to collect himself before he slipped through the door of the community room. Most of the men in there did not look up when he entered the room. They probably thought that he had been to the latrines. Only Courfeyrac stared at him, though his eyes seemed tired and slightly glazed. Combeferre tried to smile and took his place next to his friend. He moved his hands under the table and when he thought that no one was looking their way, he tenderly brushed his hand against Courfeyracs, “You can rest soon.”, he murmured quietly and for once he did not care if anyone of the others thought that he cared too much about Courf. Courf was ill and tired and lonely and he had to give him everything that was even remotely safe to give. It was not enough, he knew that. It was never enough in this camp because there was a shortage of everything worth having and the only thing in abundance were lice.  
Courfeyrac nodded and smiled but he remained silent and that was reason enough to worry. With a sigh Combeferre pulled the bonbon out of his pocket and slipped it into Coufeyracs hand. The other man frowned but peered into his hand nonetheless. And then he smiled. Really smiled, with dimples and teeth and all the tiny wrinkles around his eyes. “Thank you, Ferre”, Courfeyracs voice sounded raspy and tired and much more thankful than one should ever be for a tiny piece of cheap candy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sadly my knowledge of history is way better than my english and I'm not so sure about the first one either.  
> Sorry!  
> My german however is ok, so if you would prefer translations, let me know.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cosette and Marius receive a mysterious letter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I decided to include Cosette and Marius (and also some of the others. Yay?)  
> Also, I changed the title because I didn't like it. I don't like the new on either, but here we go.

> __Dear R.,  
>    
>  If I hope that this letter finds its way into your hands, I do not know. If it does I want you to remember this:  
>    
>  1\. I do not regret the actions and words that brought me here. I am neither bitter nor resigned.  
>  2\. We  may _not see each other again. That I do regret._  
>    
>  _May your path be different from mine._  
>    
>  _Yours,_  
>  _A._

_France, near Toulouse, January 1944_

  
  
The paper was dirty and crumbled, the writing looked shaky and rushed. Cosette looked up and met her husbands eyes.  
"Do you know anyone with the initials "R" or "A"?", she asked and took his hand in hers. The letter had appeared on their front porch. Someone must have left it there because there was no address on it and no stamps as well. Marius shook is head and scrunched his brows in confusion.  
"I do, of course. But it makes no sense. Why would anyone bring this letter to our house? It is clearly not meant for you or for me."  
Cosette leaned against her husband, caressing his callused hand. The last years had changed him. The world did not need lawyers, not honest ones at least. The law was different. Twisted.  
They lived close to Toulouse now, on a small farm with some chickens and two cows. Cosette had never envisioned herself as a farmers wife but that was what she had become. Marius had never envisioned himself as a farmer either, she was sure, but they had food and roof over their heads and that was worth a lot in times like this.  
"It was for the neighbours then? I could go there tomorrow and asked them?", she looked at her husband questionably but he shook his head after some consideration.  
"They are called Eulalie and Jean though, are they not?"  
Cosette nodded thoughtfully. "Jehan, I believe is his name. A kind man  he is . He brought us sunflowers and magnolias when we moved here but I rarely met them after that. They also have a daughter but she is only a few months old. I do not know her name but I am sure no one would write such letters to a child.", she concluded and her hand slipped to her own belly.  
She was not  certain yet and she did not know if she should really wish for a child when there was a war raging just outside her window. 

"Marius...!", she grabbed his hand more forcefully as a thought came to her mind. "What is it, love?", he sounded alarmed and she released his hand, smoothing her blouse. "Marius, what if this letter is from… one of your friends from... before? It could be encoded, perhaps?", she knew that it was painful for him to talk about them. Even before he left Paris with her, back when the war had barely started, some of them had disappeared. No one knew what happened to them. Some of the others had moved to Toulouse as well and one of them – Eponine – had managed to sneak letters into their postbox before. Cosette did not know what exactly they were doing in Toulouse. Eponine never wrote anything practical in her letters. It was safer that way. 

Marius stared at her for a moment, confused, then he shook his head again. “That is not Eponines handwriting. Besides, why would she call me “R”?  T hat...Unless...”, he fell silent and the colour drained from his face. Cosette watched him closely but said nothing. She knew that grief could claim the tongue and freeze the mind. “No. It cannot be.”, he murmured. His eyes were distant and cheerless. Again Cosette took his hand and held it close to her heart for hers was still beating and maybe she could once again chase away the ghosts from his past. Even though she herself had woken them this time. “It cannot be.”, he repeated  but his eyes lingered on the letter.  She waited and watched the candle on the table, its bright flame flickering. She was thankful for its light.

“You were right, Cosette. But still, this letter is not meant for us. I do not know why it found its way to us instead of the person it was intended for but I have to deliver it nonetheless.”, he said eventually and his voice was grave. “It is a farewell letter, is it not?”, whispered Cosette and suddenly she found a sadness in those lines that seemed so clinical, so passionless before. Still, she was glad that the letter was not for them and she felt sorry for the person who was supposed to read it. “I believe so.”, Marius answered but his gaze was still fixed on the words before them and he looked helpless and mournful. Cosette reached out and wrapped her arms around him and he buried his head in her shoulder. They were quiet for a while. 

She let her eyes wander towards the small kitchen window. It was already dark outside and the sky was full of stars. “We will think about it tomorrow, Marius.  We will go to bed now and sleep and tomorrow we will think. ”  she murmured, “And if you want me to, I will go for you.” She did not know where to or when and how but if she could help she would do so.  Her Marius was different now. So different from the man she married, the clumsy but charming lawyer with his shy smile and his grand romantic gestures. He was quieter now and more serious. He did not smile or laugh as  frequently and often she worried that this world was to cruel for him, that it would drag him down to deep for her to reach.  He was still so kind and gentle to her and she loved him so dearly and felt so dearly loved.  If the letter was important she could not say but what she knew was this: If Marius ever wrote her a letter from somewhere he was not coming back from, she would want it to be delivered to her. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and leaving kudos. <3
> 
> Also, in this chapter Courf and Ferre will talk a bit about mental health and not in the "appropriate way"? I wasn't too sure about that because this story is set in 1944 after all. If you see any issues (with this or something else), please tell me!

_Germany, January 1944_

 

Courfeyracs coughing woke him in the night. He did not know why. The sound of coughing was ever present in the barracks. Especially during the winter months when their clothes were damp when they woke and damp when they went to bed and the barracks were cold as the winter night. He opened his eyes when he felt the hand on his shoulder but he could not see. “Ferre.”, he heard Courf whisper and then the rustling of sheets. He sat up carefully, reached for the hand. He did not know what to say. After all his studying, all his reading, all his watching and learning and listening there was nothing he could do for Courf. The best medical education was worth nothing without resources. There was no one coming to safe them. They were desperately and hopelessly alone. Still he clasped his fingers tightly around Courfeyracs and he waited.

“If it's already past midnight, it's Enjolras' birthday today.”

Combeferre swallowed hard. He had forgotten. Or perhaps he had chosen not to remember.

“Is it?”, he said carefully, not wanting to ignore Courfeyrac but also too uncomfortable with the topic to say more.

“Do you think he is...they are…?”, Courf did not finish the question and he did not need to. For a long time Combeferre had asked himself the same question. Every day. He despertely hoped that Enjolras still had a birthday to celebrate. That he would do so with their friends somewhere in the countryside. That they would bake him a cake in the colors of France and that for moment or two they would all be happy. Most likely though, they were all gone.

“Perhaps they are in place similar to this. Perhaps they are asking themselves the same questions as we do. Perhaps they managed to flee. Perhaps they are fighting still. I do not know, Courf. There is no way to know. And I am sorry for that.”, he finally said, omitting the real question. He had no answers. Courfs hand trembled in his.

“Enjolras is a very resourceful man. You know that. So are the others. Do not mourn them to early, Courf. Do not waste your sorrow on friends who might be alive and well.”, he knew that his words offered no comfort but he had no warming lies to tell.

“I'm scared.”, said his friend. “I know.”, Combeferre closed his eyes once again.

“No. Not you. You are always so composed. As if you are just waiting. As if you know that it will be over soon.”, murmured Courf and his voice sounded hoarse, lost. Rubbed raw from coughing and cold air. He seemed too tired and too ill for his usual hopefulness, his endlessly smiling optimism.

“But I... sometimes I fear that I am just at the edge to insanity. That my mind isn't working as it used to. That we are losing too much."  
"Yes."  
"And I'm trying. I am. But it's difficult. It's as if there's darkness in my brain and it's spreading."  
"Courf."  
"Yes?"  
"You were fine, Courf. You were sane. The things that happened to you would change any person. Suffering does that. You cannot expect to live through something like this and remain the same. Not if you were ever sane to begin with. I am scared too. I worry about our friends, my family, you, myself. I am afraid that something might happen to them, to us.”, he whispered, stroking Courfs thumb. He felt helpless. Courfeyrac was always so brave despite all the things that had happended to them. He was the one who would spread his warmth, his hopefulness, who would sing when most of them were too tired to talk. It was disheartening to see him so defeated, though he understood and he was glad that Courf confided in him for he did not want him to carry this burden alone. He could feel his friend moving closer, burying his head in Combeferres neck. With a sigh he brought his hand to Courfs head and began running his fingers through the close-cropped hair. It had been long and curly once. They had taken that from him as well and they continued doing so whenever it dared to grow out again.

“Maybe it is time that we...that we tried to leave.”, Courfeyrac whispered suddenly, his voice so quiet Combeferre was not certain if he understood the words correctly. His hand stilled.

“You wish to escape?”, he asked equally as quietly.

“When I am better, yes. I am not resigned, Ferre. I meant that. But I cannot continue living like this.”

“I understand.”

“Will you think about it? Will you think about coming with me, Ferre?”, Courfeyracs breath was hot in his ears. Combeferre shuddered. He had thought about escaping too. It was dangerous though. There was no coming back from a plan like that. Either one succeeded or one died trying. Their bodies were fragile and broken from the months in the camp. Their minds were tired. Not as sharp as they might have been before. But what did they have to lose? A life that was barely a life at all. They were wasting away in this place and they had waited a long time for someone to safe them and no one ever came.

“I will.”, he murmured. “When you are better we will talk about this again. Now we must sleep to gather our strength.”, he cupped Courfs cheek and ghosted a kiss on his forehead. Courf was the one he had left to lose and therefore he would follow him. And if this road carried them into hell he would go there too.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahaha. I don't know how this happened. Lets ignore that I haven't updated this in more than a year. It is very embarrassing.  
> I didn't really know what to do with this story because I tried to stick as close to the historical facts as I could (the things about the camp were all fairly accurate and I based it on an actual Night and Fog prisoner camp - I worked at memorial when I started this story) but now we have reached the point were it's very much not accurate at all. I don't know. I try not to make it insultingly inaccurate. Well.  
> Thank you for the comments and kudos that were left on the last chapters. They always make me very, very happy!

_Germany, February 1944_

 

Combeferre had never thought of himself as a selfish person. He had been someone who tried to do right by his fellow humans and had succeeded at least some of the time. Sometimes he had not been happy with himself but all in all he had considered himself to be a relatively moral man. There was little challenge in morality when times were just and easy. He had been in a position to grant rather than to beg and he had used his time and his resources with care and consideration. These days he was reduced to his mind and his body, with nothing to give and nothing to own. He wanted to get himself and Courf out of this place and he knew what a decision like that entailed. If they succeeded, they would throw many of the other prisoners to the wolves. Flight was not left unpunished and if they were gone, others would suffer for their sake. He knew that. It would not hold him back. His conscience was a deformed and shriveled thing and while it wanted to feel remorse, it could barely muster more than the sense of a vague wrongness. He did not know what Courf felt. Perhaps he had not thought about the consequences their actions could bring upon their fellow men. A part of Combeferre did not want him to.

Weeks had passed since their discussion in the dark. Courf's health had improved, though he was still coughing from time to time and his face was gaunt and sallow.

This day, he still tried to look out for the other man and often his eyes would wander towards his friend. He was waiting for a sign. Perhaps it would not happen today. He did not know.

They had devised a plan a few nights back. Neither of them were sure if anyone had successfully managed to escape the camp and – if they did – had subsequently left the country unharmed. It seemed unlikely. They did not know their exact position and they did not know how large the area was that the Germans controlled. The camp was positioned in a remote moor, the Netherlands were somewhere in the West from them and there was a small village to the south, beyond the forest. If they wished to survive in this weather, they would have to go there first. Without blankets and food, they would not come far. They would have to remain hidden, for their accents and clothes would betray them and they had no money. They were a long way from home and home was lost.

Combeferre knew that their chances were slim if there was a chance at all. He wanted to life and he wanted Courf to life and perhaps he would rather freeze to death under a clear sky with Courf in his arms than slowly waste away on a filthy bed in the barracks. Sometimes he did not know how much this life was worth to him. He had known what a good life felt like but he had forgotten. For a time he had thought that after all the things he had lost, his home, his family, his friends, he had nothing left to lose. He had thought it again and it again after he had lost his hair, his healthy body, his freedom, but he had found out that there was always something left. And even when he had believed that he had become too numb to notice, it still hurt. Perhaps that was the nature of a time like this. It could take and take and take and there was still the last precious thing, the last relict of happiness and one could just wait and hope until it was taken too. He didn't know how much he would have loved Courf if the times had been different. But as it was, he loved him with the fierceness of someone who had nothing and no one else. He clung to that feeling and perhaps that was why he could not feel remorse or uncertainty. Courf was the only one separating him from absolute indifference.

He would run with him, that much he knew. They had decided to wait until the end of the day. They hoped to catch a time, when one of the more inattentive guards was on duty, one who did sometimes read while working and one who did not count the prisoners before they returned to the camp. When the guard did not look and the light of the day was fading, they would try to hide under a lorry and wait until the others were gone. They had to hope that none of the other prisoners would see them – which was unlikely – or, if they did, that they would not alarm the guard or the foreman. They had to hope for too many things to go right to truly expect a fortunate outcome. Combeferre tried not to think much further than that.

They did not have much time. Over the last couple of months, more and more Night and Fog Prisoners had arrived at the camp and the barracks were crowded. A few days ago, he had heard, that some of the prisoners were to go to another camp. He was not sure if he believed that but it was useless to wonder.

Combeferre sighed and blinked up into the sky. The earth was half frozen and sometimes his spade got stuck in it. It was warmer than a few weeks ago but spring was still far away. He did not know what time it was, but the sun was low on the horizon, almost hidden beneath heavy clouds and his feet and hands were numb from the cold. They had worked for a long time. He was not sure how much time past but after a while the clouds gathered above them into a thick, dark pile and it started to snow.

He glanced at Courf and their eyes met for a moment. Soon the snowfall was heavy and darkness settled around them like a heavy cloak. The whistle of the guard sounded as a sign to gather and make their way back to camp. For a second, Combeferre hesitated, watching Courfeyrac. It was cold and the snow was thick. They were tired from a long day of work. They could not run fast. They would not come far. He did not want to die. Courf smiled at him and nodded. It was a sad smile, a honest one. It had little in common with the ones Courf wore in the community room, when he talked to the other prisoners. Combeferre wondered how long he had been pretending. He nodded back. And when the snow fell heaviest and everyone had turned their bodies towards camp, they dashed for the lorry closest to them.

Combeferre expected to hear shouts or the sound of the rifle going off. The moor was deathly silent but for the hammering of his own heartbeat in his ears. He stumbled and threw himself under the lorry and almost screamed when he felt soft flesh under his fingers. It was Courf. The rails were hard and freezing but they pressed their bodies against them and for once Combeferre was glad for all the weight he lost, for he was not sure if he would have fit under the lorry when he was still healthy and whole.

He was trembling and he could feel Courf tremble beside him. If it was from cold or fear or perhaps both, he could not tell. They did not talk but he grasped Courf's hand and held it. He did not look at his friend's face. If they were to die there, he did not want to see it. They could hear the other men moving on the bog, the muffled sounds of their speech, the harsh voice of the guard. It was hard to breathe. Something was running down his cheeks. Perhaps melted snow. Perhaps he had hit his head underside the lorry and was bleeding. Perhaps he was crying. He did not know. So he breathed and he waited and he clasped Courf's fingers in his own as tightly as he could.

They lay there, under the lorry, for a long time after the voices had faded. They moved when night fell and the snow had stopped falling. Their bodies were stiff and frozen and their mouths did not seem to work. Combeferre pulled himself up against the side of the lorry and Courf stumbled to his feet beside him. He could barely make out the others face in the dark but if he had to guess, he assumed that he would see the same frozen mask of terror he wore on his own face. He gasped and Courf fell against him and they clung to each other. He could feel Courf's heartbeat against his body and he could not tell if he was warm or cold or something inbetween. They pressed their faces together and then they kissed and their lips were cold and chapped and bloody and they were alive, at least for the moment. He was at a place far removed from happiness and despair and he held onto Courf as if somehow, someway, they would be safe if only he did not let go. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, for the record, I'm not sure if "lorry" is the correct term. The internet said that it is kind of an open wagon that drives on the railtrack (which is what I wanted to describe here) but I don't know if anyone uses it that way. If it's wrong, please feel free to correct me. :)


End file.
